The Accidental Teyrn
by EdenLake
Summary: When Jon Amell asked for a title and riches as a reward for saving the country, he was clearly kidding.  At least, he thought that should have been clear...
1. Chapter 1

When Jon Amell asked for a title and riches as a reward for saving the country, he was clearly kidding. At least, he thought that should have been clear...

* * *

"_A title and the riches to go with it!" What kind of moronic ingrate says such a thing? Apparently, __my__ kind of moronic ingrate!_

Jon marveled at his own idiocy for the umpteenth time that week as the nobles of the Landsmeet trotted themselves out for the first dance of the wedding banquet. Not knowing any of the steps, he remained rooted in his place of honor on the dais, shifting uncomfortably in his new velvet breeches and frock coat. He'd normally resented magic robes as the uniform forced upon Circle mages. He'd eschewed them entirely after the Battle of Ostagar, in favor of the much more battle-practical chainmail. But tonight, he'd have given his back teeth to wear robes, or just about anything besides the tight, itchy velvet that was apparently _de rigueur _for Fereldan nobility, of which he was now, against all reason, the most prominent member.

"So you're the one?"

Jon snapped out of his reverie to find that a young woman had unceremoniously plopped herself down in the chair next to him on the dais.

"I'm sorry, my lady?". He assumed anyone who felt comfortable enough to mount the dais of the royal throne room without invitation had to be a noblewoman, although he didn't recognize her from the Landsmeet, and she was dressed somewhat plainly for the occasion.

"You're the one who stole my kill?"

He sighed. "I've killed quite a lot of people, my lady. You'll have to be more specific."

"Arl Rendon Howe? Mincing little syncophant of a man? Traitorous bastard?"

"Ah, you must be the Lady Cousland."

"Your Grace," she said, with a slight bow of her head. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

Jon bristled at the honorific. In his mind he had already entitled himself for the history books: Jon Amell, the Accidental Teyrn of Gwaren.

"Please," he said with a sigh, "It's Jon."

She nodded. "Leah."

"A pleasure."

"Likewise."

She held up her hand like a limp, drooping bird's wing, and he took it gingerly and shook it uncertainly, before realizing that she'd meant for him to kiss it. He felt like a dolt, but her smile as she drew her hand back seemed genuine. Perhaps it was just the wine.

"Sorry about Howe," he said with a wry smile. "He was in my way. If I'd known you'd already marked him for death yourself, I'd have just maimed him and saved him for you."

"Well, it's the thought that counts."

"You're very gracious, my lady."

"Leah," she reminded him.

"Leah. My apologies."

She paused. "I'm just glad he's dead," she said, the mirth suddenly gone from her voice.

Jon remembered the horrors of Howe's dungeon. "Likewise," he added somberly.

They sat in silence for a few moments observing the scene, as Leah tapped her foot to the music. Nobles from every reach of Ferelden (and both sides of the civil war) had gathered in Denerim for the occasion, and were now circling and swirling on through the hall in their finest silks and velvets, pretending like the horrors of the past year had never happened.

"How do you like the wedding?" Leah asked him. "I heard you were responsible for this, too." She gestured toward the royal couple.

"I suppose that's true," Jon chuckled lightly. "Although I don't have much to compare it to. How do you think it measures up?"

Leah's gaze followed Anora as she danced stiffly with her new husband, who, for his part, seemed to want to look anywhere except at her.

"It looks a lot like her last wedding, actually, right down to the groom."

Jon laughed. He'd always felt like quite the fool for having seen Cailan and Alistair practically side-by-side at Ostagar without realizing the truth immediately.

"And the father of the bride scarcely looks more pleased," she added, nodding toward the corner where Loghain stood scowling at the festivities.

Jon winced, imagining that at least some of the scowl was directed at him. He had assiduously avoided Loghain's persistent inquiries as to how Jon had survived slaying the Archdemon. The whole situation had been the product of a moment of extreme weakness, both physical and moral, and Jon had no wish to share it with Loghain or anyone else.

"Leah Cousland, as I live and breathe!"

Jon turned to see Bann Teagan striding purposefully toward the dais. Leah rose to meet him and offered her hand in the same, delicate gesture she had proferred to Jon earlier. Teagan laid upon it a gentlemany, if somewhat lingering kiss.

"I almost didn't recognize you," Teagan went on. "What happened to your hair?"

"Oh," she said, self-consciously touching her black hair, bobbed short at the nape of her neck. "I cut it short to disguise myself as a boy on our way out of Ferelden."

"Clever, cunning girl!" Teagan effused. "Did you hear, Amell—excuse me, Your Grace—this young woman fought her way out of a castle under siege by that worm Howe, with her eight-year-old nephew at her side, and escaped to Antiva disguised as a page? How's that for Fereldan spirit!"

Leah visibly blushed. "Teagan, please, you're extolling my meager exploits to a man who _slayed a dragon_."

"Two, actually," Jon said matter-of-factly. "Three, if you count...well, that's a long story."

Leah smiled. "You'll have to tell me that one later."

"It would be my pleasure." Jon felt himself flush, to his sudden confusion.

Teagan broke in. "Your Grace, please forgive me, but I simply must borrow the Lady Cousland for the next dance."

"Teagan," she said nervously, "it's been quite a while since I've danced. I must apologize in advance for your feet."

"Nonsense!" Teagan laughed, offering his arm. She took it, and stepped tentatively out onto the dance floor with him.

Jon watched them as she laughed and nervously minded her feet and Teagan beamed his warm, indulgent smiles. He felt an unexpected knot of jealousy tighten in his gut. It hit him suddenly that perhaps she had been looking to be asked to dance, and he had missed the chance, just as he'd failed to kiss her hand. As the Teyrn of Gwaren, he probably ought to have been able to ask a lady to dance.

But, of course, he didn't know the steps.

* * *

_Author's note: I'm not certain how I feel about this story, but I'm willing to try it out if you are. :-) The plan is to bring it all the way through Awakening._


	2. Chapter 2

"Where did you learn to do that?"

Jon panted, exhausted, and set his sword down in the dusty palace practice yard. He brushed his hair back from where it had come loose from its queue and become matted to his forehead with sweat. Finally he turned toward the familiar voice.

There he found Leah Cousland in front of the weapons rack, clad in workaday chainmail, hand on one hip, regarding him carefully.

"Apologies, Your Grace. I didn't mean to intrude on your privacy."

"Oh, that's…fine. And it's Jon, remember?"

"Of course, Jon," she smiled. "Just making sure that wasn't the wine talking last night. Do you mind?" she asked, gesturing toward the weapon rack.

"Not at all, please."

To his surprise, she picked out two masterfully worked longswords, hefting one into each hand. Turning back to him, she mused, "You didn't answer my question."

"Your question?"

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"You mean where did a mage learn to swing a sword? From my father. He taught me a few basics before…before I was taken away. He was a good swordsman."

"Your father was a knight?"

"A squire. His family was from Kirkwall, but they squired him in Ferelden. He was supposed to be a knight someday, but…"

"But what?"

"But he had a mage for a son."

"Oh…I see."

"It didn't really endear him to the local lords, I guess. From what I understand, he took my mother to Amaranthine and joined the city guard after that."

"I…I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I don't even really remember them."

"That…doesn't make it better."

"No, I guess not."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. What I meant was….I mean, I've seen lots of men swing swords. But I've never seen a man conjure a swarm of insects with one."

"Oh," Jon flushed. She had been standing there watching him practice longer than he realized. "I learned that from an old elf at the Tower. The elves have an ancient magic art that combines swordplay and spells."

Her brown eyes grew wide. "Do all Circle mages learn that?"

"No, we're not supposed to. It was sort of a secret."

She smiled. "I think I understand." Then she caught herself. "I mean, it's not that I understand what you've been through, because obviously I don't." Now it was her turn to flush, embarrassed. "I just mean…my brother used to give me secret swordplay lessons. And then I started teaching my nephew, Oren. And Oren's mother liked it even less than my mother did."

"Your mother didn't want you to fight?"

She shook her head. "Not with a sword. She thought the bow was more ladylike." She gave his shield a taunting whack with her off-hand sword. "I like to be in the thick of things," she grinned.

He smiled back, picking up his own sword and lunging at her, but she deftly parried away. "I know what you mean," he replied.

With a clang of steel-on-steel and the glint of sunlight dancing off burnished armor, the battle was on. She fought with quickness and grace, but her movements had a studied, almost academic way about them. She was skilled, but not experienced. Jon knew his tactics were less subtle, less skillful, but he was stronger, and had the benefit of a year of pretty much constant fighting under his belt. He had also been practicing for the better part of the morning, whereas she had come in fresh. At one point his fatigue got the better of him, and she took the opportunity to lay him out flat on his back. He went down with a grunt, but as she approached to declare victory, his body burst forth a pulse bitterly cold frost that sent her staggering backwards.

"Gah!" she yelped, dropping both her swords and falling on her backside.

Jon sprang to his feet with a grin. "Sorry, I couldn't resist." His merriment quickly turned to concern, however, when he saw her shivering and frantically rubbing her hands together for warmth.

"I'm sorry," he said, "that spell can be kind of rough on the extremities." He crouched down next to her and she flinched.

"I frightened you," he said, gravely.

"No. I mean, yes, a little. I just…I've never seen magic up close like that before. Except for healing, I mean."

He nodded and placed his hands over hers. A shimmering blue light seemed to engulf her whole field of vision and the ice melted away, leaving a pleasant, tingling sensation behind. She looked from her hands to his face.

"Thank you."

"Not at all. I…I shouldn't have."

"No," she replied, getting to her feet, "I'm glad you did. Next time, I'll be prepared."

He nodded. "It's not just that, though." He looked up at the palace windows, overlooking the courtyard. "You never know who might be watching. Magic run amok and all that. People could get the wrong idea."

She regarded him quizzically. "You do know you have your own house in Denerim, right? You could practice there without anyone seeing."

He blinked. "I…what?"

"Gwaren House. I've never been there, but I think it's a few blocks west of the market? Or maybe south. I can't remember. I'm sure the queen could tell you, though. Or Loghain. Or any number of other people around here."

He considered that for a moment. "I…uh…" _I would feel like an idiot asking someone where my own house is._

She seemed to understand. "I can ask around, find out what kind of shape it's in. For your sake, I hope it weathered the battle better than Highever House."

"Please…I…thank you."

"My pleasure."

Jon sincerely hoped it was.

* * *

_Author's note: Thanks everyone for all the feedback, fav'ing, and following! I'm clearly a sucker for a meet-cute. More to come!_


	3. Chapter 3

With a grunt, Jon heaved open Gwaren House's rusted iron gate. With a deafening creak it swung open, shedding a hail of ivy leaves from the thick vines that covered the wrought iron like a green and brown tapestry.

"Well, this isn't so bad!" Leah said brightly, regarding the prospect before her. "Highever House is practically half a ruin, but this is just…neglected."

Though the outside guard wall had collapsed in some places, undoubtedly from the darkspawn siege, the structure of the house itself looked sound, at least from the outside. It was a well-constructed building, and to Jon's surprise it looked very little like the Guerrin or Howe estates. Both of those great houses were built in the same, grand, hewn-stone and carved-beam style of the royal palace. Gwaren House, on the other hand, looked basically like a scaled-up version of an ordinary Fereldan farm house, all plaster, cobblestone, and rough timber. If not for its size, one would never know anyone of importance was supposed to reside there.

As if reading his mind, Leah observed, "The queen said they rarely used this place, except for housing Gwaren's knights sometimes. The Mac Tirs usually stayed at the palace. Not surprising, really."

Jon's thoughts lingered nervously on the idea that he apparently had _knights_, somewhere. He wondered what they were doing, if they were in Gwaren, or Denerim, if they would even deign to remain with him after years of service to the Hero of River Dane. He gulped nervously.

Leah continued. "Apparently the old seneschal is gone into the queen's service, so you'll have to find someone new. I hear you're pretty popular in the Alienage, so that might be a good place to start. Although…."

Jon's rising anxiety was turning quickly to panic as her voice trailed off.

"What is it?" he pleaded.

"Well, I checked some records in the palace from during the regency, and…it looks like Loghain emptied his own treasury to fund the war. You're sort of broke at the moment."

Jon burst out laughing. The small sack of sovereigns he'd carried around during the Blight had been as much wealth as he'd ever possessed in his life. The idea that he had a treasury at be emptied at all was still a fuzzy hilarity to him.

Not understanding, she reassured him, "But Gwaren is immensely profitable," she assured him. "You'll make it back in no time."

"So, I guess, what, I collect taxes then? To pay for things?"

She looked askance. "Eventually, yes. But, maybe taxing your people to pay for the repair of your city estate wouldn't make the best first impression," she suggested with a wry smile. "Maybe you should continue staying at the palace for now."

He smiled at her, gratefully. "Of course," he mused, "there's no reason we can't practice here, even if I don't live here."

She raised an eyebrow. "We? Is that a standing invitation?"

"Of course. You've been so much help, I can't thank you enough. And, between you and me, I think the practice dummies coddle me. You know, _rank_ and all," he smirked.

She burst out laughing, and for the first time that day, Jon felt genuinely pleased with himself.

* * *

"You're a bastard."

Jon looked up from his desk where he was finishing a letter to the Warden Commander of Orlais.

"Actually, Your Majesty…."

"Ha, ha, yes, right, _I'm_ the bastard, et cetera, et cetera." Alistair waived a dismissive hand. Jon mused that the gesture looked almost royal. _Probably picked up from Anora, _he thought.

"I thought we weren't speaking," Jon reminded the king.

Alistair paused. "I think you'll probably want to hear what I have to say."

Intrigued, Jon folded his arms and waited.

"But," Alistair emphasized, "I don't want to leave you with the impression that this means I don't think you're a right bastard, betrayer, and generally an unprincipled git."

"Right. Got it. Unprincipled git—yours truly."

"I thought you might want to know that Teagan is planning to propose to Leah Cousland."

Jon felt his chest tighten, but tried to maintain his composure. "What makes you think I'd want to know that?" he asked defensively.

Alistair guffawed. "I saw you at the wedding with her. And the next day in the practice yard. And then yesterday at dinner." Instinctively, Alistair moved to clap Jon on the back. "You don't fool me."

Jon smiled. It suddenly felt like old times again, the two of them joking and teasing each other and generally trying to find something, anything, to smile about in the midst of so much death and destruction. Their other traveling companions had perhaps thought them flippant or foolish, but in Alistair Jon had found a true brother. At least he'd hoped as much. They both suddenly remembered themselves, and the cool distance returned.

"Anyway," Alistair said, moving back toward the door, "if you're planning to make a move, you should probably do it soon."

"Noted, Your Majesty."

"Bastard."

"Alistair….?"

"….What?"

"Thanks."

* * *

"Gorim!" Jon cried, catching sight of the merchant in his usual spot at the market the next morning. "Gorim, do you have anything new in stock?"

The dwarf grinned. "I certainly do, with trade from Orzammar finally opening up again. I have you to thank for that, as I understand it."

"Any new weapons?" Jon asked eagerly.

"You need a new sword, Warden?"

"No," Jon shook his head. "I need _two_."

* * *

_Author's note: So, apparently when I start writing this story, I can't stop. Happy New Year, everyone!_


	4. Chapter 4

On the way to Antiva, Leah Cousland had spent three months at sea. She and Oren had slept in a rat-infested cargo hold that smelled of droppings and rotten fish. She'd spent the waking hours of every morning painfully binding her chest in stiff bandages to disguise her curves.

That experience now seemed like an Orlesian pleasure cruise in comparison to sharing a room with her cousin Habren, whose incessant nattering had now turned to how very _lucky_ Leah was to have had such an exciting adventure.

"It's a shame about your hair, though. It used to be so long and pretty."

Leah clenched her teeth. She had long since tired of people commenting about her hair. Yes, it used to be long and thick and hang to the middle of her back. Yes, she had cut it. Yes, she had pretended to be a boy. No, it had not stopped sailors from trying to rape her. Yes, she did have to garote one of them and throw his body overboard after he'd discovered her secret. Yes, she'd had to do this in front of Oren. At this point in the story, people usually backed slowly away or become very interested in their drinks. Except Loghain Mac Tir, who had actually smiled and patted her on the back, and Jon Amell, who had frowned and said simply, "That's horrible," which was the most sensible thing anyone had to say on the matter.

Leah had learned over the years that refusal-to-engage was usually the best method for dealing with Habren; one-word answers, grunts, and shrugs eventually put her off.

"I saw you talking with the new Teyrn of Gwaren at dinner yesterday," Habren went on.

"Mmhmm."

"Teagan looked jealous," she giggled. "They say he wants to propose to you."

"Oh." People had been saying that for almost ten years. It was getting old.

"I wonder if Amell will propose to you."

Leah shrugged, even as she felt her heart flutter slightly.

"He's very handsome."

"Yes." It wasn't untrue.

"I bet you'd make a great Teyrna of Gwaren."

Leah hesitated; a compliment from Habren was usually a trap. "Probably."

"But would you want to be Teyrna of Gwaren?"

"Why not?"

"Well, yes, but would you want to be _his_ teyrna?" Habren prodded.

"Sure."

"But he's a _mage_."

She shrugged. "No one's perfect."

"Well, if you married Amell, maybe _I_ could be the Banna of Rainsfere. And really, being a banna is much easier than being a teyrna, don't you think?"

"I guess."

Leah prayed that would finally shut her up, but had no such luck.

"Rainsfere is really much prettier than Gwaren…." Habren rambled on. And on. And on.

* * *

What Jon had told Leah about being in the thick of things was not a lie. He'd never found it easy to hang back and wait. Which was why he had to really concentrate on not encasing Teagan in a slowly shrinking cage of magical energy and squeezing the life out of him. _That sort of thing would probably be considered uncouth at a diplomatic reception_, he thought.

So Jon merely sat glaring as Teagan introduced Leah to yet another ambassador and began extolling her many braveries and virtues. Leah, for her part, looked a little sheepish at the display. But neither did she move Teagan's possessive hand from her forearm. Jon felt his irritation rising, and had to remind himself that he had a secret weapon. Two, actually. He had finally settled on each one that afternoon, after much hemming and hawing and general trying of Gorim's patience.

The first was a fine and hefty dragonbone thing, with a wide hilt and a string of lyrium enchantments that made the weapon fairly hum with magical energy. The second was different, a blade gracefully curved in the elven style with intricate engravings of flowers and leaves on the pommel. He would give them to her at their planned practice session the next morning. If he could make it through the night without killing Teagan first.

"So, Your Grace" slurred a drunken voice, "are you going to ask Leah to marry you before Teagan does?"

Jon turned to find Habren Bryland wobbling at his side, mug of claret in hand.

"Excuse me?" he asked, trying to supress a smile, remembering her as the woman from the marketplace who had called Leliana a slut, and had been promptly robbed for her troubles.

"She'll say yes, you know. She told me so!" Habren gestured toward her cousin and a small swell of claret broke over the side of the mug, dribbling onto what had to be some very expensive silk gloves.

Jon wasn't paying attention to the claret, though. "Really? She said that?"

"Sure!" Habren cried. "She said that even though you're a mage and not really perfect, she'd overlook it because she'd make a _great_ teyrna."

"Really," Jon said, his face falling, "she said that."

"Yup! So if you're going to ask her, could you please hurry up, because she also said that if _she_ got _you_, then _I_ could have _Teagan_! And Teagan is sooooo dreamy!"

"Excuse me, my lady," he said, getting up abruptly, "I think I need my own claret."

* * *

Jon parked himself in a corner of the reception hall, third mug of claret in hand, brooding. He had been a fool. Again. Why did he not see it sooner? Inquiring into Gwaren House and the teyrnir's financial records, peppering him with questions about his family. It was all so _mercenary_. Had he really thought that this highborn lady might be interested _him_? The Grey Warden? The _mage_? He cursed himself audibly.

"A word of advice, boy."

Jon looked up to find Loghain looming over him. "Don't you have a trip to Orlais to pack for?" the younger man taunted the older.

Undeterred, Loghain said, "Regret is a fool's way to begin a new life."

Jon met Loghain's piercing gaze straight on, trying to figure what the man was on about, but Loghain just stared right back. Stubbornly, Jon turned back to his angry sulking and took another swig of claret.

He heard an exasperated sigh behind him. "Also, I have it on good authority that Habren Bryland is a gossipy, drunken twit."

Startled, Jon, shot Loghain a gape-faced, befuddled look.

"What?" Loghain asked defensively. "I do have a daughter."


End file.
